No One Worse Than You
by M. the Inspector
Summary: The Hound makes a really difficult partner sometimes. (Meant to follow some of my other Sandor & Arya fics, but can also be read alone).
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This takes place some years after Over the River and There's People Coming, but it can also be read by itself. **

**This chapter is a little glimpse of Arya & Sandor at home. I'm not specifying where home is or what their relative positions are, because that would be spoilers in case I ever decide to write the story of how they ended up there :o)**

**It's not fluffy, though. There's discussion of some ugly skeletons in the Hound's closet.**

* * *

_Boy,_ Arya thought when she looked him over. Anyone younger than she was was still a _boy _to her, even though this one was probably approaching twenty. He had his height already – impressive height, and it took a lot of height to impress Arya given who she spent her days with – but he didn't yet have all his muscle. In another few years his chest and shoulders would bulk up, and then he'd be impressively strong, too. His name said he was a bastard from the Riverlands. She'd never seen him before.

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she said. "I know firsthand that caring for a direwolf cub isn't easy. I really appreciate the trouble you must have taken to bring her all the way here to me."

Sandor spoke up next. This surprised her; he usually sat through guests in sullen silence. "The gift of a puppy is the way into the lady's heart – not mine," he growled. "Why'd you ask to see the both of us at once?"

The boy drew himself up. "My house has been burned down and I've been chased from my village. I want you to take me in."

Sandor laughed. "Half of fucking Westeros has had its house burned down, boy. Do we look like an orphanage to you?"

The boy wasn't cowed – in fact, he firmed up his stance even more, and something about his scowl… "It's _your _fault my house was burned."

"The fuck it is. I don't set fires."

"It's still your fault. My house was burned because _you _have enemies. An awful lot of people hate you. And somehow, despite my best efforts to keep it quiet, some of these people found out that I'm your nephew."

A long silence. "My nephew," Sandor said at last. Low and raspy. "Gregor's get."

"Yes, my lord." The boy hazarded a smile. "My lord uncle."

Sandor sat still a moment – too still – and then before Arya could speak up, rose from his chair and started walking around the big table to the front. Scooping up his sword as he went.

"No – _Sandor_!" Arya jumped up too, dove under the table and scrambled out the other side. Not quick enough; she was behind him and he was just a few steps away from the stupid boy, who just stood staring wide-eyed like he didn't believe he was about to get beheaded.

Needle was already in her hand as she charged him, and when he raised his arm to swing she went in under his armpit – jabbed the point in and ripped open a gash beside his ribs. He roared and turned. She dove past him, somersaulting on the hard floor… and came up right between Sandor Clegane and his prey. _Not a good place to be._

"Go," she barked over her shoulder. "Run." She heard the footsteps; the boy was obeying.

She stood breathing hard, still holding her blade, but balanced and ready to dive aside. How enraged _was _he? She wasn't dressed or armed to withstand him if he attacked; _why _didn't she ever carry her big fucking sword with her?

His chest was heaving too. But after a moment he threw his sword to the ground and spread his hands. "No."

She put Needle away and breathed slow and deep until she'd calmed down. He was doing the same thing, standing far away from her, staring out the window. She approached him slowly. "Sandor? You're cut – let me see."

He shook his head.

"Come on – don't be-"

"I'll go to the fucking maester," he said over her – short and sharp.

She swallowed. He _never_ volunteered to see the maester. He must be deeply upset with her. "I'm sorry."

He was still facing away. "Never mind that," he said more quietly. "Go see to the boy. Have him locked up." He sighed, then added: "If you let him go instead, I'll hunt him down and it won't be pretty. Is that clear?"

He wouldn't appreciate any further attempts to make nice. "Yes," she said, just as quiet, and went out.

The boy was in the hall, unconscious. "He ran," one of the guards explained. "We heard you and Sandor shouting, and we thought..."

"Sandor was shouting because I stabbed him," she said shortly. "The boy didn't do anything wrong." The guards looked a little concerned by that. "Listen: he's to be locked up. _Somewhere where Sandor can't get to him. _Until we can agree on what to do he's not to be harmed – by _anyone._ Is that clear?"

They both _yes milady_'d her and dragged the boy away.

* * *

He went to the maester alone and took his stitches sober – penance, really. A sort of half-baked hope that the gods would be a little kinder with him when it came time to face Arya again.

The gods didn't seem to be listening, though: she came by almost as soon as he was back in his room. It hadn't taken her long at all to think of the question.

"Have there been others?" she said.

"Other whats?" he said, without any hope that he was misunderstanding.

"Other bastards of Gregor's. Or yours, I guess."

He'd tried to prepare himself but still it wasn't pleasant to talk about. And she was not going to be happy when he did. She knew already that he'd kill children when he needed to, but... "Gregor had two others that I found."

"Did you kill them?" Her voice was low and measured – rehearsed. There was no point asking her _Are you sure you want to know_; clearly, she was sure.

"The first was a girl. I paid the mother, had her swear that at the first sign there was something wrong with the babe she'd drown it. But it was a girl, so..." he shook his head. "I let it live."

(Now, knowing Arya, he knew that girls were nothing to trifle with and he shouldn't have taken chances. But Arya would not appreciate that, so he kept his mouth shut.)

"What about the second one?"

"Second one was a boy."

She didn't make him say any more than that, but then, she of all people would be able to fill in the details for herself. He badly wanted a drink. The wine on the table was calling to him. He didn't go to it.

"And what about _you_?" she said. "Have you had any children of your own?"

He shook his head. "I've always just bedded whores. They know to be careful."

"What about-..." Arya stopped, and went for the wine herself. Poured it, took a long sip...

And held the rest of the glass out to him. "It wasn't _always _just whores," she went on. "You told me once that you raped a couple of girls when you were younger. What happened with _them_?"

He poured the whole glass down his throat before trying to answer. "They didn't have any children."

"Why? Did you kill them?" Then she put her hand on his arm. "No – never mind. It's not my business."

He knew it was showing on his face; there was no point hiding from it. Anyway she had a right: she was laying with him, it was only fair that she know what happened to the ones who came before. "Aye, I killed them."

She didn't say anything.

"Clean, if that matters," he added. "Gregor wanted to... do things, but..." he shook his head.

"Is that why?" she asked. "Is that why you killed them – so that he couldn't?"

She wanted to think he'd only been _saving _them, sparing them something worse. He wished he could let her, but he'd never been a very good liar. "No." She was waiting. "Gregor said _maybe we've put sons in them. _He said _Do you think they'll look more like me, or like you? _I thought about that for a second, and then…" He shrugged. "Got my sword."

He could still remember little bits about the girls, if he tried. The one he'd taken first, black hair, had had his bloody handprint spanning both cheeks. The other had come to him with her jaw already broken; apparently she'd screamed too loud for Gregor. They'd been no older than Arya was the first time he took her to bed. He remembered wondering whether they'd even had their blood yet... and Gregor had laughed about that. _We'll give them blood enough, brother_.

Arya was still looking at him. He turned away from her so that she couldn't, but she hugged him from behind. "I love you," she said quietly, and that wasn't good: she didn't say it often, and when she did it was usually to brace him up for something awful. "But you're an idiot. That's not a good reason to kill someone."

He sincerely doubted there was _any _reason good enough for everything they'd done that day. But he didn't tell her any more. He just nodded and closed his hand over her arm, pathetically grateful for the contact.

"We are not going to slaughter your nephew for no reason. Let's get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning."

* * *

**The End.**

**So… I'm really trying to be done writing this pairing. But never say never and all, so who knows! (I do have an idea for putting Ramsay and Sandor and Arya in the same room, and I kinda love it.) For now, though, this is the end. Thanks so much to everyone who gave comments. Hope you enjoyed!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one takes place a while earlier than the prior chapter. This is Arya's wedding day. In order not to give stuff away in case I decide to write more, some things are ambiguous. Like, the identity of the groom. :o)**

* * *

She usually liked the Hound better in armor, because out of it his clothes bagged off him, stained and ill-fitting, disguising his strength and his competence and basically everything good about him. Out of his armor he usually looked like a drunk peasant.

Today was different, though. This outfit had been sewn for him with care, made to hug his body so that you could see, for a change, that he was not in fact just a big shapeless lump.

(A big shapeless _mountain _of temper and metal. She had to wonder what Gregor would have looked like in regular clothes. Or out of them. She was glad she didn't know.)

She took in his broad shoulders and the tapering at his waist. The muscles of his legs. He looked... imposing, and more. _Maybe we can sneak away from the feast, _she thought, _and fuck in our new clothes. _The thought made her chuckle; it was _exactly _the sort of thing you weren't supposed to do.

He spun around, and saw her looking. "You," he growled. "What do you want?"

"Nothing. Just looking."

"Why?" He sounded suspicious.

_Because it's nice to see you not look like a drunk peasant for a change. _No – why pick a fight? She just gave him a quick smile and a quirk of eyebrows. "Because you look great."

* * *

Every single day of his life people told him, by word and glance and deed, that his face was a nightmare. He'd thought that he was completely used to it by now, that it could never bother him again. And yet…

Well, the wolf girl was special. He'd known that for a while.

He forced himself to take a breath though; even _he _wouldn't shout at a bride on her wedding day. She probably hadn't meant to do anything more than tease rough anyway. "You're going to look just as silly in your bloody _dress_," he snarled, "So I'd shut my damn mouth if I were you."

She blinked. Cocked her head. "Can't you hear?" she said at last. "I wasn't saying you look bad. I was saying it's _good_." She spoke slow and careful, like trying to explain to a halfwit. "You look _nice_."

He stared. No idea even what to say. He literally couldn't remember the last time he'd had his fucking appearance complimented.

Arya laughed at him. "You'd better get used to it," she said. "You're not going to be able to just lurk in corners today; people are going to notice you. And some girls are going to like it."

When he still didn't have an answer she sighed in annoyance and came close.

"You're tall," she explained. She reached up and patted his chest. "Strong up here..." Dragged her hand down his side to his belt, and tugged on it. "And no belly. Girls like that – you have a good shape."

He swallowed. "I-... I don't..."

She rolled her eyes. "Here – let me fix your hair."

He knelt down for her and closed his eyes while she fussed, running through it with her fingers. "I don't know how you even _see_, with it all flopping in your face like this," she said, for the hundredth time.

When she fixed his part, her nails against his scalp made him shiver. "Enough," he growled, but made no move to stop her.

"After all this trouble to look nice," she said. "We're not going to fuck it up because you don't have the patience to get combed for ten seconds. Hold still."

The comb was even worse (better?), and he made irritated hissing noises the entire time she used it. "Happy?" he said when she was done.

"Almost." She was frowning, examining his face closely.

He managed – barely – not to pull away. "The fuck are you looking at?"

"You missed a spot. Shaving." She touched his jaw lightly. "Can I fix it?"

He rose up laughing. "The day I let you at my throat with a razor, wolf girl..."

She shoved him. "Fine. I'll go get myself ready instead." Then she grew serious. "The ceremony is only three hours away. _Do not get drunk_ in the meantime. Promise?"

He snorted. "You made me promise to show up at the damn wedding. I did _not _promise to do it sober."

"Well you can get a _little _drunk. But not, you know..."

"All right: promise."

"Thanks. I'll see you later." She started to leave... but paused in the doorway. "Can I ask a favor?"

Gods preserve him. She was going to ask him to, to _dance _with her or something. Couldn't very well refuse her, though, could he. "Aye."

"If I do look silly in my dress," she said, without facing him, "Be nice to me anyway."

Her voice was higher and tighter than it ought to be, and he felt like absolute shit. "Girl, you're going to look fine-," he tried to tell her, but the door was already closing behind her.

He sighed. Scowled at himself in the mirror. Great indeed.

* * *

**The End.**

**Let me know what you think! **


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